Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  She put her hands on her hips. “Has she been telling you about our great-grandmother? She always does that. I don’t understand how she remembers so much. Ma Brown died when she was nine.”

  “Ma Brown must have had a profound effect on your sister. She’s got me close to wanting to offer prayers to the woman.”

  Carly looked at Jazz, with that gleam in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Nothing is going on. I’m on business.”

  “Yeah, right, and Bell is in her—”

  Then, the realization. I saw it in her face the moment it dawned on her.

  “Oh, no,” she said, pointing. “You’re wearing those wretched pajamas?” She gave an exaggerated eye roll at my jammies. “Have you ever heard of Victoria’s Secret?”

  “Have you ever heard of No More Sheets?”

  “What’s No More Sheets?” Jazz asked.

  “It’s an abstinence thing,” Carly said. “Bell made me watch the video with her. It didn’t do much for me, but it did wonders for her.”

  It sure did. “I’m pleased to say that after a long and painful surrender, and the subsequent and inevitable depression that followed, I am now, blissfully, free of fornication.”

  “I can see why,” Carly said. “You can market a line of those pajamas and put Juanita Bynum out of business. Who’d want to make out with someone wearing those?”

  “She has a point, Bell,” Jazz said.

  I sighed, more than ready to move our little huddle away from my door. “Lieutenant Brown is not here to make out with me.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Carly asked.

  I looked to Jazz for help.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said. “If I say I am, you’ll get mad at me. If I say I’m not, both of you might get mad. I’m pleading the Fifth.”

  “Coward,” I said.

  “I will say you are a beautiful woman, despite your taste in lingerie.”

  Then Rocky appeared, sauntering through my still-open door. “What’s wrong with her taste in lingerie?” He came over to me and kissed my cheek. “Hey, babe. I love it when you wear your fuzzy pajamas.”

  Two pairs of eyes bore into my handsome pastor. One pair, Jazz’s, darted quickly to me, and then back to Rocky.

  “And you are?” Jazz asked, looking more than a little annoyed.

  “I’m Rocky,” he said, smiling. “Don’t tell me. You’re the flower guy, right?”

  I thought this would be a good time to introduce them. “This is Lieutenant Jazz Brown. Jazz, this is Rocky Harrison. He’s my pastor.” He’s my ex-boyfriend. I couldn’t believe Rocky’s timing. I hoped I could keep the two of them from squaring off and fighting.

  Jazz extended his hand to give Rocky a clearly macho, bone-crushing handshake. Of course, Rock extended pure grace.

  “Whoa. Firm handshake.”

  Jazz eyed him. “A pastor who calls his members ‘babe’ and has pajama parties with them. Must be a close-knit congregation.”

  Let the fight begin.

  Despite the teensy amount of satisfaction I felt at Jazz’s obvious jealousy, my instincts to protect Rocky surfaced. During the year we dated, we did nothing to be ashamed of. We’d kept our relationship honorable.

  I narrowed my eyes at Jazz. “I don’t have pajama parties, except for this home invasion I’m having right now; and I didn’t send out an invitation for this one. You might also note that I happen to be the only one in pajamas. For your information, Lieutenant, Rocky has counseled me as a pastor and friend through one or two, uh, episodes.”

  “Yeah, man, fuzzy jammies are the uniform for ‘episodes,’ and I think she looks kinda cute with her little safety pin.”

  “If that pin got any bigger it’d be a concealed weapon,” Jazz said.

  “Only, to her shame, it’s not concealed,” Carly said. She breezed into the kitchen. “You got any Starbucks?”

  “You know where it is, Car.”

  Rocky attempted to make conversation with Jazz. “The jammies always let me know how vulnerable she is, right, babe?” Rocky said, squeezing me. I smacked his arm away. I didn’t want Jazz to think we had something going. Just in case.

  “Rocky, why are you here? As a matter of fact, why are any of you here?”

  Jazz went first. “I came because you weren’t answering your house or cell phone.”

  Then Rocky. “So did I, babe. How many times do I have to remind you to keep your cell phone charged?”

  “I couldn’t reach you either,” Carly called from the kitchen. I could hear her in there rooting through my cabinets. “Did you move the biscotti?”

  “Yes, to the canister on the counter!” I’d had enough. I made a point of stomping into my bedroom and bringing out both my cordless and my cell phone. I made a show of placing them back on their chargers in my living room. “Now you can all call me.” With that done, I pointed to Jazz. “Okay, you first, Lieutenant Brown. What do you want?”

  “The cocoa you offered.”

  “You didn’t come for my cocoa.”

  “No, I came to check on you, notify the medical examiner if you were dead, and investigate if you had been murdered, even though this isn’t my jurisdiction.”

  “I am the medical examiner,” Carly called from the kitchen, “but this isn’t my jurisdiction. I came to see if you wanted to go shopping. We’ll hit Victoria’s Secret at the Briarwood Mall first.”

  I ignored my sister. “And having found me alive, Lieutenant Brown?”

  “We have work to do today, Ms. Consultant.”

  Yes, but I hadn’t expected him to show up first thing in the morning.

  “And why are you here, Rocky?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay after what happened at my house last night.”

  “What happened last night?” Jazz demanded, going into full cop mode. Before Rocky could fix his mouth to answer, Jazz glowered at me. “You were at his house last night.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Rocky asked, puzzled. “She used to live there.”

  Jazz’s eyes darted back to me.

  “Uh,” I stammered. “That sounds a lot worse than it was.”

  Jazz’s arms crossed again. “It’s none of my business.”

  “He lives in a communal house with some members of his ministry team. We were on staff together right before I finished graduate school. I lived in the house—the community house—as a staff member, and only for three months.”

  Rocky looked at Jazz. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

  This time Jazz stammered. “We—we’re just working together. She’s my consultant.” He turned to me, looking annoyed. “Where’s my cocoa?”

  “I found the biscotti. Nice canister,” Carly called again. “Is he paying you for that?”

  “For the canister, or the consulting?”

  “Consulting. You got any ham?”

  “No. Who has ham and coffee?”

  “I can’t help it. I’m in the mood for ham. Is he paying you?”

  “Yes, he’s paying me.” I looked at the men. “Would you two like to have a seat at the dinette?”

  “Please,” Jazz said.

  I pointed at my little dining table, which suddenly looked like children’s furniture in the presence of two very manly men. “Sit,” I said.

  Rocky went into the kitchen instead, and helped himself to the cocoa. He knew where I kept everything. From the look on Jazz’s face, he found that to be disagreeable.

  Carly shot out of the kitchen as if Rocky were a carrier of the Ebola virus, but managed to say to him, “Could you make me some coffee while you’re at it?”

  She eased into a chair at my dinette table, next to Jazz. “How much are you paying for my baby sister’s consulting services?”

  “That’s really not your business, Carly.”

  I admired his forthrightness.

  She ignored him, and grinned at me. “Is it five grand, Bell?”

  I knew Carly to be remarkab
ly perceptive, but goodness gracious. “How did you know that?”

  “ ’Cause that’s how much I told him your procedure would cost.”

  “My procedure?”

  “You know, the procedure you’re going to have so you can get pregnant.”

  And on that note I fainted.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  THERE ARE MOMENTS when one prays for a loss of consciousness: extreme pain, terrible emotional duress, and when your sister tells the man you’re falling in love with that you want to be artificially inseminated.

  I imagine my guests did a lot of arguing and clamoring until I awakened a short time later to find the three of them hovering over me, a chorus of “Are you okay?” ringing in my ears.

  My mouth opened, but coherent sound would not come out. Fortunately for Carly, the presence of a homicide detective in my living room curbed my urge to kill her for her indiscretion.

  An uncomfortable silence shrouded us, which Rocky plowed through first. “You’re having a procedure so you can get pregnant?”

  I crawled toward the couch. “I’m considering—I was considering artificial insemination, which I can afford now, thanks to my sister who talks too much, and my generous benefactor here.” I shot a hard look at Jazz.

  “Whoa,” Rocky said. He’s such an innocent sometimes.

  “So what? She wants to be artificially inseminated,” Carly blurted out.

  Jazz raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Your sister didn’t tell me that.”

  I must make Carly suffer. Slowly.

  I tried to defend myself. “Look. I got a hormonally fueled idea born of desperation. I’m over it. Mostly.”

  Jazz laughed. “I could donate to that cause for free.”

  I debated as to whether I should use my remaining strength to throttle him or continue toward the couch.

  The couch won.

  Having reached my destination, I used my meager amount of energy to yell at Jazz. “I thought I’d be working for the Detroit Police Department.”

  Jazz had the nerve to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. Five g’s from the Detroit Police Department for a consulting fee?” He flopped down beside me on the couch. Carly took the chaise longue, and Rocky sat in my antique bentwood rocker.

  I hadn’t finished arguing with Jazz. “First of all, I decided against having it done, and second, you can’t give me that kind of money.”

  “Sure I can. It’s my money. Plus, you’re going to help me find the freakazoid who killed Jonathan and Damon.”

  I really needed to get off this subject long enough to think through the revelation that Jazz had ulterior motives for paying me that had little to do with my superlative consulting skills. Suddenly our business had turned personal, and did he just offer to be my donor? I took a deep breath and focused on my pastor, now gaping at Jazz.

  “Did you say Jonathan and Damon?”

  “Yeah, I did. Do you know something about them, Rocky? Because I’ve got a team of detectives interviewing people and all we’ve managed to come up with is one anonymous tip that they were drug dealers. Everyone else said they were ‘quiet and kept to themselves.’”

  “Too bad you can’t get information from Susan Hines.”

  Jazz looked impatient with Rocky. “Who is Susan Hines?”

  “Bell’s client.”

  Two pairs of eyes, from those who were not acquainted with Ms. Hines, settled on me.

  “Don’t look at me. She’s not my client. She fled Jonathan and Damon’s group the day of the murders, but that’s all I know. I just went to talk to her as a favor to Rocky, and she refused to say a word.”

  “Yeah,” Rocky said. “She’s like this.” And then the man went catatonic on me again. I tried to ignore him.

  Jazz and Carly stared at him in obvious disbelief. After an excruciatingly long half minute, Jazz said to me, “Is he for real?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  I turned my attention to Rocky. “Snap out of it.”

  He responded immediately this time, shaking his blond, spiky-haired head. “That is so…”

  “Trippy,” I supplied. “Anyway, as you can see by Rocky’s demonstration, Susan Hines is not currently self-reporting.”

  Jazz looked frustrated. “That’s just great. I’ve got two people dead and, according to Rocky, a catatonic potential witness…whom I knew nothing about, thank you very much, Ms. Consultant.”

  “I don’t think she’s catatonic, and at this point there’s nothing to tell.”

  Clearly Jazz is not known for his patience. “I need to talk to her. Now!”

  “She’s not talking.”

  “I can get her to talk.”

  “You can get her a bed in the psych ward at U of M. No way is she ready for you, Jazz.”

  “How long before you can get her to talk?”

  I nestled into the couch cushions, nice and cozy. “It’s hard to say.”

  “I need that woman to talk.”

  “My great-grandmother used to say, ‘People in hell need ice water, but that don’t mean they’ll get it.’ ”

  I could hear the mounting frustration in Jazz’s voice. “I’m not asking for the impossible.”

  The man would not quit. I sat up. “You are asking for what I can’t give you right now.”

  After that he turned flat-out rude. “Just do your job and get the woman talking.”

  “Do your job and find another lead. The woman is in no condition to talk to you right now.” I probably shouldn’t have said that, but I was a little salty because he pulled the “do your job” card on me.

  He clenched his jaw, and I could tell I’d made him mad. Unfortunately, being humble with the opposite sex is not my strong suit. Actually, being humble with Jazz Brown is not my strong suit.

  I got off the couch and dragged myself into the kitchen, feeling like a jerk. I pulled a pot out of the cabinet and poured milk into it. A few moments later, while I waited at the stove for the milk to boil, Jazz came in. I had my back to him, but he walked up behind me and yanked at my pajama sleeve.

  I ignored him.

  He kept yanking.

  “Cut it out.”

  “Let’s make up.”

  Making up sounded very positive; however, I refused to surrender—at least not until I heard him grovel. I went with denial. “I’m not mad.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  So what? “You’re the one who’s mad.” I kept my back to him.

  He stood right behind me, really close. “I spoke to you like a cop, not a friend. I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  He rested his head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bell.”

  “I said, don’t call me that.”

  His arms slid around my waist.

  “Did I say you could touch me?”

  “It’s just a friendly hug,” he said.

  Goodness me, it did feel friendly. Which is why I gave him a firm rebuke. “Hug me when you’re available.”

  Carly hollered from the living room. “Oh, yeah, what’s all this unavailable nonsense?”

  She and Rocky rushed into the kitchen as if they were coming to save me from a terrible fate.

  “Are you toying with my baby sister?” Carly asked.

  “Toying with her? She’s too good for that,” Rocky said.

  “Would anyone like peppermint in their cocoa?” I said, turning to face them.

  “No,” Jazz said, slowly removing his arms from around my waist. He eyed the others, most likely calculating what he’d do in case they attacked.

  “You don’t want peppermint in your cocoa, Jazz? It’s very festive,” I said.

  “It’s the beginning of September. I don’t do festive until November, and I was saying no to them.”

  “You’re not toying with her heart?” Rocky said.

  “No.”

  “But you are unavailable?” Carly asked.

  “Listen, I told Bell that, but I have
a good reason. She just repeated what I said as if it were…” He took a moment, probably to search for the perfect word. “Evil.”

  Okay. That was a little harsh.

  Rocky said, “My girlfriend is not evil.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jazz said. “Bell is your girlfriend?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Not anymore,” Carly said. “Why do you care, Jazz? Aren’t you unavailable?”

  Jazz hadn’t finished with Rocky. “How long did you date her?”

  “A year—until she broke my heart,” Rocky said, giving Jazz the puppy eyes. Big, tough cops must be immune.

  “Do you still see Bell?”

  “We hang out, and I see her at church, unless you count something like last night.”

  Jazz shot a very ugly look at me. Then he turned his attention back to Rocky. “What, exactly, happened between you two last night?”

  Rocky shrugged. Tried the puppy eyes again.

  “I see,” Jazz said.

  “You think you see,” I said. “I happened to have spent my evening trying to see if Susan would talk.” I swiftly changed the subject. “Why don’t you answer Carly about whether or not you’re available, Mr. Inquisitive?”

  Carly put her hands on her hips and glared at Jazz. “Yeah. I told you all that stuff about Bell.”

  I would have strangled Carly, but thought better of it since “big, tough cop” happened to be in the room. And now that I thought of it…“You asked Carly personal questions about me? And every time I turn around you’re in my face, yet you refuse to tell me why you’re unavailable.”

  “Fine,” Jazz said. “I’m unavailable because I got married three and a half years ago.”

  Carly looked shocked. “Don’t tell me I’ve been flirting with a married man for more than three years?”

  Leave it to Carly to make this about her. She continued to grill him. “Are you still married?”

  “No. She left me three months after we got married.”

  I know I should have stopped them, but, honestly, I wanted to know, too. And this way I wouldn’t have to ask him again myself. I grabbed cups and cocoa-making necessities and started banging things around, trying to take some of the heat off poor Jazz, even though I’d fought with him minutes earlier.

  “What did you do?” Carly asked. “Nobody would leave a man as fine as you unless he did something really bad.” She drummed her fingers on the countertop to punctuate her accusation.